


it was all very tidy

by glockgal, stubbleglitter (maggie)



Category: DCU - Comicverse, NSYNC
Genre: Crossover, Illustrated, M/M, One Night Stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glockgal/pseuds/glockgal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggie/pseuds/stubbleglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>holy one-night stand, batman!</p>
            </blockquote>





	it was all very tidy

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _Thanks to glockgal for the (nsfw) illustrations; story includes mild violence, mild incestuous overtones._   
> 

_stupid stupid stupid_

The word ran in flightless circles around Justin's brain, jarred briefly by the bump when he fell, flailing awkwardly. He had a good sense of balance -- a _fantastic_ sense of balance -- but he wasn't used to being hit, for fucksake.

The three men advanced on him as he sprawled against the piss-stinking wall, hands patting desperately up the rough brick and along the wet asphalt, some weapon, somegoddamnthing that he could throw at them, hit them with --

_stupid stupid stupid_

\-- because he **had** to duck out of the club for a quick joint, he **had** to make a game out of shaking Cameron, he **had** to expand that game to include security --

_stupid stupid STUPID_

\-- one of the fucking thugs whipped something out, and Justin'd heard that noise enough in movies and stuff  
to recognize a knife-blade, and he heard himself give a terrified groan just before he kicked out crazily, catching one of them in the kneecap and giving him enough time to scramble to his feet, and maybe _maybe_ he had a chance of taking all these guys and getting out of this, spin and crack one lopsidedly in the jaw with his fist and **fuck** that hurt --

_STUPID STUPID oh holy SHIT_

\-- and then there was something enormous and black hurtling down out of the sky, something that grabbed the guy who was twisting Justin's arm behind his back and _crunch_ the guy was out, the other two were running, and Justin flopped flat on his ass again, panting and starting to notice the bursts of pain in his wrist, and the big black thing was standing over him. It made a noise, and Justin's brain slowed down enough to unscramble it into something coherent.

"yeah," he answered weakly. "Um, yeah. I'm okay, it's not too bad."

The big black Batman nodded, then reached down to hold Justin's arm and pull him up. Justin unfolded like a marionette and Batman straightened him before letting go.

"Get that wrist looked at," he said.

"Yeah," Justin said in surprise, looking down at his hand. When he looked up, he was looking at nothing.

...

His wrist was only strained, fortunately. His doctor tsk tsked at him, taped and bandaged it up, gave him a regimen of compresses and some painkillers. Justin sat dazedly in the car when his mother drove him home, gently flopping his wrist back and forth and watching the gauze crease and crinkle. Cam could've driven him, but he hadn't told her he'd been attacked and so she thought he'd just snuck out on her. She was mad at him. That was okay, though, because that was what girlfriends did. Justin didn't mind so much. He was kind of looking forward to making it up to her and coaxing her to forgive him; he'd always been good at that.

"Justin, honey -- don't do that. You need to let it heal." Lynn reached over and gently pushed his injured hand down onto his thigh. Her hand folded warmly over his and her fingernails tickled through his jeans where they scraped, French manicured and impeccable. Justin licked his lips and tried not to think about the hot-spots of her fingertips and the hungry feeling inside him.

...

Apparently he couldn't do much with a sprained wrist, which was stupid because back in Germany he'd _broken_ his fucking thumb and had still done showcases and concerts and publicity. Apparently a sprained wrist meant he had to sit around and do a lot of reading and tv-watching. Apparently.

"If you hadn't just hurt your foot..." Lynn told him warningly when he started making noises about wanting to go play golf with Chris.

"If I hadn't hurt my foot, maybe I would'a been able to get away from those fuckheads," he grumbled, remembering the twist of pain in his foot-bones when they'd knocked him down. Lynn sighed fondly, stopped setting the table and came over to where he was standing leaned back against the counter; she leaned in to kiss his mouth quickly, breasts and belly swelling against him and Justin had to shift, fast and desperate.

"No golf," she said firmly, blue eyes flashing, and went back to laying forks and knives out next to the plates. Justin rolled his neck until it cracked and picked up the phone, watching his mother as he dialled.

"Hey, yeah, hi," he said when Chris answered. "No golf, man. Damn foot's still aching and I better not fuck up the wrist any more."

"Wow, I totally didn't expect you to say that considering your mom picked you up from the hospital," Chris said in a monotone, then chortled impishly. "You total loser. Tell Lynn hi for me." Justin snorted and hung up.

"Happy?" he asked his mother softly. Lynn smiled, smoothing a napkin. Justin pulled himself easily up onto the counter and unfolded the day's newspaper, giving it a flap before a headline caught his eye. _batman busts gambling ring, prominent businessmen indicted_, it said. He squinted at it and tried to remember what the Batman had looked like, standing over him, and what he'd felt in those few seconds when he first saw him. It had felt like a second chance on life, like he'd never be in danger again. It had felt deeply terrifying at the same time.

The newsprint rubbed off on his thumbs and left dirty smudges on his jeans and the counter, but they still didn't look half black enough.

...

By the end of two weeks, when his young strong healthy body had repaired the tortured muscles of his wrist and the snapped bones in his foot, Justin had accumulated a little pile of news clippings. It wasn't as if the Batman was in the newspaper every day -- or rather, it _was_, but only because he was a staple in tabloids and smarm rags. Much like Justin himself, really; the discarded snipped-through copies of the tabloids crumpled in his garbage can all had articles on him and Britney or him and Cameron or him and Janet in them, too. Which was kind of good, because it kept him from taking any of the articles on the Batman at face value.

He'd been able to convince Cam to stop being mad at him, but he hadn't told her about what really happened that night. Hell, he hadn't even told Chris; the only person who knew was his mom and she didn't seem too eager to discuss vigilantes with him anyhow. He'd considered telling Trace, but then again Trace had always been the Joker or Two-Face when they were little, so Justin didn't bother.

He spread all the clippings out and stared at them, at the wash of black and the blurry photographs and the dark on dark, the vague shapes, and he could almost remember the weight of the Batman's cape, the sound it made when it moved through the air. He was pretty sure he could remember the slight smell of rubber, the slight smell of ozone. He knew he could remember the voice, concrete dragged across gravel.

"Batman," he said out loud over the pulpy smell of the newspaper, but even saying it didn't make what had happened any less real, any more ridiculous. Not when even the thought of how _fast_ the Batman had moved and how easily he'd tugged Justin to his feet made his heart thrum in agitation, adrenalin pumping and synapses frittering, his whole body at high alert. It had all been so _clear_, somehow, bright and simple and real in a way that made longing rise up inside him. He wanted just one more moment of that feeling, but the newspaper reports were all so flat, black and white, nothing like the real thing.

When Lynn found all the clippings swept into the garbage, she gave him the same look she'd given him when he thought he'd been so quiet jerking off when they shared a room in Germany. Just like then, he didn't deny it and just like then, he didn't feel bad. He had the feeling she wouldn't want him to, anyway.

...

The thing about being solo, being so prominent in the public eye, was that it meant doing a lot more promo and charity work.

That sounded bad, Justin amended hastily to himself, frowning. It wasn't that he found all of this schmoozing and getting photographed to be a burden, it was just that... there was so _much_ of it. And despite their opulence and excess, after a while the after-parties and the swanky functions all started --

"All blurring together by now?"

Justin looked up, startled, and found Bruce Wayne smiling at him. Bruce Wayne, the famous millionaire playboy-type; Cameron occasionally babbled about how she'd met him at the screening for _Being John Malkovitch_ or something and how impressed she'd been with him and how blue his eyes had been, and now he was here in the flesh and all Justin could really think was, _shit yeah, his eyes are **blue**_.

"You know how it is," he grinned, shifting to face Bruce properly. "Gotta get your face seen, or people start to forget."

Bruce raised his eyebrows. "Can't say I've ever had that problem," he murmured dolefully. "In fact, people have this incredible habit of remembering me even when I've forgotten them!"

Justin laughed, for real and not just polite fronting. "No kidding. I know how that is, man. It's hard to keep track sometimes."

"So many pretty faces," Bruce said, and Justin blinked, feeling an electric hot shiver run up his spine. Because Bruce was studying _his_ face, those glacial blue eyes sweeping up and down, and if there was one thing Justin knew how to read for certain it was somebody who was checking him out.

He carefully put down his crown &amp; seven and licked his lips, sweet lemon-lime and oak of whiskey underneath. His whole body felt loose and prickly at the same time; Justin stared at Bruce's hands, big capable strong hands, and felt his eyes go hooded, his hips slant.

It had been so long since he'd had a fuck.

"Look," he said, pitching his voice lower, all husky honey-dipped blues as he stepped delicately closer to Bruce, "you 'n me? I think we've got some things in common."

"Oh?" Bruce's tone was still light, and he inclined his head in a polite manner, but Justin could practically smell his blood heating, stirring under the expensive clothes and the expensive cologne.

"Yeah," Justin said. He checked his watch and looked out at the party, the same people dressed in the same clothes talking about the same things, all of it too boring for him to even contemplate going back to. "We got time. We both can keep a secret." He sloped a gaze at Bruce. "Right?"

Bruce was silent for so long that Justin started feeling decidedly uncomfortable. Had he said something wrong? Had he insulted the man? Did he totally misread the signs?

No, he told himself, no. There was no way. He had enough native intelligence of tricking on the sly to fuck up that badly. But maybe Bruce wasn't up for that kind of adventure, wasn't gonna go for it --

A hand on his shoulder, and he was gently being guided from the main banquet room. "I have rooms upstairs." Bruce's deep voice against his ear, and Justin smiled. Something was bursting up bright and clear and real inside him, and he wanted more.

...

They were barely inside before Justin slammed into him, wrapping his long fingers up the sides of Bruce's face and kissing him, little bites all over his strangely austere mouth, lots of tongue, and Justin was moaning before he even knew it. The sound startled him, the hunger and wantonness in it, and when Bruce wrapped his arms -- strong, so fucking strong! -- around Justin's back it made his cock jump in response.

"aaaah, fuck," he muttered, mouth wet against Bruce's cheek and those eyes were different now, none of the flighty playboy in him. Bruce grabbed Justin's tie and yanked it off, pulled off his shirt, left him panting in his designer pinstripes and stockinged feet. Then he put his enormous hands on Justin's hips, holding him tight, and Justin obligingly undid Bruce's tie, unbuttoned his shirt a bit, undid his pants. He licked his lips and grinned, but there was no answering smile and Bruce's hands moved up to his shoulders, pressing down, down, and Justin slithered to his knees.

Bruce's cock came free, aided by Justin's eager fingers, and Justin opened his mouth for it right away, shamelessly pushing his lips down over it and sucking the head before moving down. He gave great head; he knew it, he'd been told. Justin was pretty confident in his cocksucking skills. He was sure Bruce felt the same way, because he put his hands on the crown of Justin's head and pulled him in, tilting his hips forward. Justin automatically let his mouth go slack and accepted it all, the thick cockhead bumping the back of his throat, ran his hands up Bruce's thighs, around his hips, over his ass until he was pressing his fingertips right _there_ and then Bruce pulled away, suddenly.

Justin had just enough time to wipe spit and pre-come from his chin before Bruce yanked him up and gave him a little shove toward the bed. Justin went willingly enough, but Bruce caught hold of him around the middle and pushed him down, then grabbed him up again and lifted him off the mattress, settling him back down on his hands and knees. All the manhandling made Justin feel like he was in the circus or something, learning some acrobatic feat, learning the correct positions; the thought made him giggle a bit to himself.

"Down," Bruce said firmly, and Justin's breathing took a stutter because he almost, _almost_ sounded like the voice he heard at night when he had his smudged fingers wrapped around his dick, but then Bruce's hand was sliding up his bare back and applying pressure until his forehead was smushed against his forearms. Bruce yanked his pants down, pulling them off Justin one leg at a time, stripping him naked. He shuddered in excitement at the thought of how it must look -- him splayed naked on the bed, ass in the air, and Bruce with his impeccable suit dishevelled and open but still on.

"Oh god, yeah," Justin mumbled into the bedspread, shocks of excitement coursing through him. "Yeah, Bruce, fuck me, do it."

And then there were two slippery fingers inside him, _two_ right up front and Justin grunted a little against the sheets, but he was hot for it and pretty soon he opened right up under Bruce's fingers, one more and gentle scissoring and by then he was begging for it, needy whimpers and hip-wriggling while Bruce tore open a condom packet, rolled it onto himself.

"You're certain you want this," Bruce asked him, wet fingers on Justin's hip, the brush of his pricey open pants against the back of Justin's thighs. "You need to be certain, Justin. I won't go any further if you don't want it." His voice was oddly soft and hesitant, and Justin exhaled loudly, lifting his head.

"Fuck, yeah, I want it!" he said. "You better not _even_ be thinking of stopping, man, because--"

The sudden push into him cut him off, made him gasp loudly for a few moments as the thick head of Bruce's cock forced itself into him, past the tight entrance. "ohgod," Justin whispered, then again. "_oh_ god."

The feeling was incredible; every nerve in him was zinging in startled excitement, the sharp knifing sting from where Bruce was lodged inside him, and Justin dropped his head back down, feeling the sweat start to slick his brow. "More," he moaned, urgent. "C'mon, more, man. I want it." He pushed back, and Bruce's hands stilled his hips with a low, indulgent chuckle that made Justin's mouth water.

"Patience," Bruce said, sounding infinitely amused. "You'll get what you want." He paused, sliding forward one more delicious thick inch, then added, "if you can handle it."

Justin growled and threw all his strength into a lunge backwards, the muscles of his legs tightening and releasing, then tightening again with the pain as Bruce's fat, hard cock slammed up inside him. He pushed himself upright, unfolding out against Bruce's broad chest, the slight scratch of his costly shirt sending sizzles through Justin's over-sensitized skin. Bruce's hand slid over his hip, hanging briefly there before grasping Justin's twitching cock, and Justin twisted his head enough to kiss Bruce again, bite at his mouth and have Bruce bite back, suck at his tongue, and then oh _fuck_ Bruce was rocking his hips and the feel of that strong, steady motion was nearly overwhelming.

"Back down on the bed, Justin," Bruce told him, and Justin scowled, arching his back and raising his arms to wrap them around Bruce's neck. The sheets bunched down under his shins, tugged free with all the movement. "Fuck that," he panted. "I wanna do it like this."

Bruce kissed him again, sucking hard at his already fattened lower lip. "Down," he said, steel in his voice, and he inexorably pushed Justin back to having his face pressed into the bedspread. Justin snarled and put his hands over the one Bruce had on his cock, wrapping his fingers around and fisting Bruce's hand as the older man continued his pace.

"I'm going deeper," Bruce told him, and Justin had a second to wonder what he hell that meant before Bruce was pulling and pushing and arranging him, like a doll, folding him up tighter so he was almost doubled in half and then Bruce pulled almost out and Justin gave a little whimper of panic before he was fully impaled, total devastation in one long insistent stroke.

Everything went red around the corners of Justin's vision and he made hapless senseless noises against the bed; it felt like Bruce's cock was in his throat, it was so deep, deep inside him. He slapped his damp hands down on the sheet, the knuckles red from having them clenched so tightly, and let his mouth fall slackly open as Bruce continued the same pattern, withdrawing to the brink and then thrusting back in with inhuman force.

"Perfect body," Bruce grated, and he was barely even out of breath while Justin's heart was pounding in his ears and he was gasping laboriously for each intake of air. It sounded to Justin almost like Bruce was _assessing_ Justin's performance, and that was fucked up but, whatever -- even if Bruce Wayne had some serious control issues, it sure as hell made for a damn good lay. Bruce stroked one hand down Justin's flank and said, "Very responsive, nice."

"ohgod ohgodohgod," Justin mumbled mindlessly, his hips shifting to ride fluidly with Bruce's thrusts. His knees were starting to hurt and his cock was pressing urgently against his own belly, and he reached down to jerk himself off, thumb sliding over the crown of his dick as Bruce slid his hand down the side of Justin's face to cup his chin. Justin bit at his fingers, mouth spit-slick and swollen, and groaned long and loud around them. Bruce was pretty quiet, apart from the running commentary, but Justin liked the volume up. There was something about hearing his own voice yelping in pleasure that did it for him every time.

Bruce shifted and kissed the nape of Justin's neck, flicking his tongue down Justin's spine before taking firm hold of his hips and driving in over and over, banging hard against him and a loud slap of skin meeting skin with every thrust until Justin was howling and seeing white spots, everything coming to a sharp spiral fast like a blow to the head and he was suddenly coming in great, sticky gobs all over himself and the bed. There was a hot wetness left inside him even after Bruce and his fucking

crazy stamina gave a last battery of thrusts, made one low, loose groan and pulled out.

Justin collapsed, sprawled out on the bed with his legs still splayed and he could hear Bruce moving, his weight lifting from the bed, the unmistakable sound of him fastening up his clothing. Justin rolled lazily over, the effort making him grunt, and propped himself up on his elbows to stare at Bruce pulling on his still-impeccable jacket, shaking his dark hair out of its disarray. This was new. People didn't just walk out on Justin, not unless they'd known him long enough to have earned the right. And even then they only did it when they absolutely had to.

"So I guess you're a fan of the five-minute fuck and then out the damn door, huh?" Justin tried to keep the annoyance from his voice, but it came through anyway -- petulant, pissy, he didn't care -- and Bruce must have caught it because he offered a slight, faintly apologetic smile. His eyes were a bit glassy and tight around the corners, and it occurred to Justin that maybe this guy wasn't used to the conventional etiquettes when it came to fucking fellow celebrities at charity functions. Or maybe, he thought as Bruce dropped one hand to lightly squeeze Justin's ankle with as much tenderness as Chris or Joey would, there was a particular reason he'd been so anxious to make sure Justin was into it.

"Hey, look," Justin said, because he figured it wouldn't hurt him any to be kind. "It was good. I had fun. You had fun?"

"Sure," Bruce said. He dug the sheets out from under Justin's calves and threw them over him. "It's easy to have fun." Which sounded to Justin like it carried a lot more issues than he was willing to deal with, but the smile that Bruce followed it up with was evidence enough that he was already gearing himself back into party-mode, light affected conversation, no subjects deeper than the punch bowl. Justin sighed in relief and flopped back down, blinking at the ceiling.

"Okay, great, no harm no foul. So, um..." He threw an arm over his eyes, feeling sweat stretch across his brow. The feeling inside him was already starting to abate and settle down from bright and clear and real into soggy same-old, nothing exciting, smudged newsprint, and that sucked but there was still stuff that needed attending to. Justin was lots of things, but he wasn't sloppy even if he was occasionally slutty. He cleared his throat. "So, I can trust you not to go running to the tabloids with this or anything, right?"

He heard the door open. Bruce's voice was low and bricks scraping over concrete when he said, "I'm the soul of discretion," but when Justin sat up, heart hummingbirding into sudden recognitive excitement, he was already gone.


End file.
